


a tangled web

by halfmast



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmast/pseuds/halfmast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things catch up to you eventually. [Lydia-Centric.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	a tangled web

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post 2.06 and moves forward from there. Thank you for reading.

Her Mom is out when she gets home - surprise, surprise. The house is quiet, dark as she moves through it, but her eyes adjust almost immediately and she’s stopped questioning whether it’s normal to be able to see as sharply in complete darkness as in bright light.  
  
She’s stopped questioning a lot of things.  
  
It’s getting harder though; the questions crowding in, leaking into her consciousness, her subconscious.  
  
She swallows hard and thinks of something else, her dog. She scans the living room floor, “Prada, come on - ” she calls on a sigh, moving to the glass doors.  
  
The puppy scurries out from the den, rushing at her for a moment, and then outside. She catches, for half a breath, his reflection in the glass - blinks it away before she really sees it though; can’t let herself _see_ it. He’s the boogie-man, the monster under her bed, the villain from the fairytale - and she’s not a scared five-year-old girl.  
  
(either that, or he’s the man who almost killed her on a field of green, green grass under lights so bright she still sees them when she closes her eyes)  
  
She follows Prada slowly into the yard and what follows from there is just another odd happenstance to add to her ever-growing list.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
“I don’t need to anymore,” she says sharply, piercing a grape with her fork, “I told you that.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry. I mentioned that, right? I can mention it again, as many times and whenever you want me to – I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t come back. I – ”  
  
“Whatever, Stiles,” she rolls her eyes, standing abruptly and moving away from him.  
  
“Lydia – ” He follows her.  
  
“I talked to Allison,” she tosses over her shoulder. Actually she’d translated five pages of archaic Latin for Allison and then been sent home with a sad brown-eyed look and an anxious, _not right now Lydia._  
  
“Okay. That’s good. That’s great,” he nods his head, following her, his gaze moving over her face and hair and back to her face with such intensity that she has to focus on not caring. “But are you sure you don’t want to talk to me too? I mean there’s really no such thing as too much talking. I’m a firm believer in that. I know some people subscribe to the less is more school of thought but I’ve always felt that – ”  
  
“ _Stiles,”_ she cuts in with a huff, stopping in the middle of the hall and turning to give him a quick, pointed look.  
  
He stumbles to stop, eyebrows arched.  
  
“Less is more,” she says firmly, tossing her hair a little as she turns around, “Shut-up.”  
  
She can feel his gaze follow her until she turns the corner.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
She’s not trembling when she leaves the house; not on the outside anyway. She can feel tremors in the pit of her stomach though, quaking there, building; but she can feel him watching her too.  
  
He’s under the ground her toes sink into, in the air that’s filling her lungs and she’s not going to freak the fuck out – she’s _not._  
  
The Hale house flickers for a moment between beauty and disaster when she looks up at it and there’s a memory that isn’t hers lurking behind her eyes – laughing dark-haired children being spun around and _one more time Uncle Peter_ – it makes her skin prickle.  
  
She’s going to walk home and she’s going to take a shower. She’s going to brush her hair and she’s going to brush up on her archaic Latin – because apparently that’s useful.  
  
And when the sun rises she’s going to do her make-up and go to school and make some pathetic, pill-popping bimbo cry for thinking that the world should care about her problems.  
  
(and she’s going to ignore the flutter of _that’s my girl_ that whispers through her mind)  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
“Werewolves. That’s what you’re going to go with,” she snaps. They’re standing on a patch of grass outside the school, around the back, hidden from general view.   
  
He’d begged her to talk to him, to tell him what she’d almost said that night in the car, what had had her in tears then - but it felt so long ago now; she couldn’t really, even if she wanted to.   
  
She’d turned it around on him, of course – tit for tat.

He swallows hard and nods, dark eyes on her face, hands twitching a little, “Werewolves— yeah,” he nods emphatically, “That’s- what’s going on.”  
  
“God Stiles, when did you turn into such an asshole,” she breathes, her heart pounding a little harder all of a sudden.  
  
There’s genuine incredulity behind the words and he cringes a little, “It’s the truth. I swear. It’s the truth…”  
  
“Do you think this is funny?” She scowls, “I go to a dance _with you_ and end up almost mauled to death by – ” the words stick, her breath too short. She gasps, his face flickering in her mind, smiling, _my backup plan,_ and she shudders, trying to draw in air, but her throat feels closed suddenly.  
  
The space around her spins and he’s coming at her— _it’s_ coming at her— pointed ears and a snarling mouth and _teeth_ —  
  
Wolf teeth.  
  
“ – _Lydia!_ Lydia… shit, Lydia… please, hey please don’t pass out, hey-hey, come on Lydia please – ”  
  
His hands are on her face, her arms, around her waist and she realizes abruptly she’s leaning into him; disoriented.  
  
“Get off me!” She pants, shoving him back, staggering away from him.  
  
His arms stay outstretched towards her, like he’s afraid she’s going to fall – and for an instant so is she – then she inhales a sharp breath, forces the world around her to right itself, and fixes her gaze on him— turns every shred of fear and uncertainty roiling around inside her into anger, “Werewolves,” she spits.  
  
He draws back, eyes wide in his face, startled by the intensity of that glare. “Ye-yeaah,” he nods adamantly, “I know it’s crazy. Insane. A b-horror movie that nobody ever actually watches but you can still find at the rental place and you have to wonder why the hell it exists when it’s so bad and ridiculous and the special effects look like you downloaded a free app to your computer and – ”  
  
“Swear it to me. On your dead mother. That you’re telling me the truth.”  
  
He flinches, rearing back and tensing.  
  
She doesn’t regret it; she holds his gaze and waits.  
  
“I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this,” he says more seriously, “With something so… stupid. If there was something to cover up, I’d cover it up better than with – ”  
  
“Stiles.”  
  
His mouth closes, lips pressing together. The air is quiet between them then, enough that it presses down on her, feels like it sticks to her skin, but she doesn’t look away – and neither does he.  
  
“I swear,” he says finally, voice low. “I swear… on her grave, it’s the truth.”  
  
She holds his gaze, unblinking, for a beat; and then the air rushes out of her, an exhale— panic and relief as everything clicks with such clarity she has to take another step back.  
  
“I know it’s… hard to believe, but – ”  
  
“No,” she says mutedly, “It’s not.” She backs up until her back is pressed against the building; leans back against it as it courses through her. Werewolves.  
  
 _You knew it, my girl. You felt it._  
  
Faint tendrils of another life, another self, extend out from her gut, through her, and all she can hear for a moment is his voice, whispering, _feel it..._  
  
Something hot, vicious twists inside her, floods her mind – darkened woods and a rising yellow moon, blood drenched walls and claws tearing at flesh, the howling of wolves and fire— so much fire… melting skin and dissolving bone—  
  
“Lydia!”  
  
Stiles’ voice rips into her head – loud, urgent, panicked – and she’s abruptly aware that she’s sitting on the ground, hands over her ears.  
  
“Are you okay? Shit. I mean obviously not- but what- what… shit, you’re shaking…”  
  
She flinches away from his hands, “Don’t _touch_ me,” she hisses at him, inching away. “I’m fine.”  
  
He watches her anxiously.  “Okay it’s been like, what? Five minutes and you’ve done that twice – freaked out like that… are you- ” he makes an expansive motion with his hand, “Tell me what’s going on with you.”  
  
She breathes out slowly –  
  
 _We could tear him to shreds,_  
  
“You can trust me. Really. I know I haven’t been all that reliable recently, but Lydia if – ”  
  
 _rip his throat right out._  
  
“ – you need help, with anything, let me help you. You know that I care about you and I want to be your friend and – ”  
  
 _We don’t need his help._  
  
“- like I said, there’s really absolutely nothing you could say to me that would shock me into _not_ wanting to be around you. I mean my best friend is a werewolf… which, oh right – so Scott… obviously, is one. I meant… when you asked, to specify that… that yeah, they’re not just random werewolves. Scott’s one and you remember Derek Hale, right? He’s – ”  
  
She flinches at the name, something sparking inside of her; blistering and sharp and she gasps. There’s a rush of fury— blinding, mindless rage, that fills her up, wants to break free, to rip out of her and leap through the parking lot, into the woods—  
  
And suddenly she can’t breathe; the sun is too hot, birds are chirping too loudly, somewhere someone’s chewing gum, brakes are squeaking, doors are being slammed, an apple is being chewed, it’s all inside her, stretching her at the seams—  
  
 _“Lydia.”_  
  
There’s a heartbeat that echoes with the her name; a drum, steady, close, rhythmic and she focuses on it, the way it doesn’t change, constant and even.  
  
“Just breathe, okay? Slow... one breath in and then out, focus on my voice... in and then out, you can do it... it’s okay. You’re safe here... you’re okay... in and then out, in... and out...”   
  
His voice is slow, even, and she latches onto it; dimly aware that his arms are around her, that she’s behaving like a lunatic, that her cheeks are wet, that this is mortifying, and then... that her breaths are evening out - matching his, her heartbeat too, matching his...   
  
She takes a long, shuddering breath.  
  
And he nods, “Good... that’s good, easy...” he murmurs.   
  
He’s looking at her so intently, so worriedly, when she opens her eyes that she can’t look away.  
  
“You’re okay,” he says, his hands framing her face now, “You’re okay.”   
  
She stares at him, feeling the tears pool.

 

“Trust me, okay?” He smoothes her cheek, wiping tear streaks away.

 

She pulls back finally, puts a hand to his chest to stave him off, fingers clenching a fistful of his shirt – she doesn’t need someone to wipe her tears.

_You’re my girl, Lydia –_

 

The voice ripples through her softly, almost like it’s her own, familiar and smooth and she shuts her eyes, imagines it as a dark red ribbon and twirls around her fingers, winding it between both hands like a game.

 

 _– this is why I chose you, even now we know the things you can do, we know what you’re capable of –_  
  
She steadies the illusion, brings it into full colour, to complete clarity _–_

_– we know the blood you carry_  
  
And then she wrenches the ribbon apart- it tears, the threads shred, and his voice snuffs out.

 

There is no we, she thinks, and clenches her jaw.


End file.
